


18-12 / 4-36

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Didn't Know They Were Dating, Friends With Benefits, M/M, fucking to avoid hard feelings, literally the definition of problem project, set during the cruel rfa summer 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23878984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Patrik and Mikko train in Turku, waiting on two new contracts that don't seem to be coming easily. Patrik's always been a little in love with Mikko, but he doesn't think it'll be a problem to share a tiny apartment with him for the summer.Patrik gets more than he bargained for, but then he plays for keeps. He's always been good at keeping score.
Relationships: Patrik Laine/Mikko Rantanen
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73
Collections: Lower Your Damn Standards: week 3: problem project





	18-12 / 4-36

**Author's Note:**

> words cannot describe the way this fic has tortured me over the last 13 months. i originally was writing it for pucking rare last year and didn't finish, and it has haunted me ever since. it has been the object of much frustration, pain, and annoyance, and the worst part was that it was around 7k and very very close to finished when i abandoned it.
> 
> so clearly it's perfect for this challenge; i dusted it off and gave it a proper ending based on what actually happened in september with their contracts! this is THE problem fic for me, and i still have crazy mixed feelings about it, but it's done and i guess the world gets it now!
> 
> ps if you are the original pucking rare requester and you happen upon this... here you go?

By the time Patrik is finished fucking around, shopping, and golfing in Dubai after only winning two games in the playoffs (they won _nine_ last year), he realizes that he hasn’t figured out where he’s living in Turku to train. He lived with a couple Tampere guys last summer and the summer before, but he’s pretty sure they’re all training other places or living in smaller apartments this year. He sits in the Dubai airport scrolling through group chats looking for messages about where people are living.

_my place has an extra room by the way!_ Patrik stares a long time at Mikko’s message. It’s probably a bad idea. Patrik’s always had a little bit of a _thing_ for Mikko. Not a crush, but just a _thing_ in the sense that Mikko has cute dimples and is funny and in the best shape Patrik’s ever seen anyone be in. He doesn’t want to be distracted any more than he already is during the summer.

_how bad of an idea is it for me to live with rane this summer_, he texts Sasha, already knowing what Sasha will say before he sends it.

_Very bad. _The reply is almost instantaneous. Patrik frowns at his phone. Sasha’s on vacation with his girlfriend, too busy to come to Dubai with Patrik. It’ll be July before they see each other again.

_you think?_ he replies, pulling his carry-on closer to him in his lap and listening to planes take off and land behind him.

He sends another: _i wont do anything stupid_. He knows Sasha won’t believe that, considering the plethora of evidence to the contrary he has.

_I don’t think you’ll do something stupid. I think _he_ will_. Patrik stares at that text, because Sasha doesn’t even really know Mikko. It rubs him the wrong way a little. He sends the eye-roll emoji.

_You only ever fall for people who end up hurting you_, Sasha replies.

It stings. The worst part is that Sasha is _right_, that Patrik does have a tendency to fall too fast and too hard for people who end up thinking he’s too much. He hates how well Sasha knows him, and he hates that he knows Sasha so well that he knew how he’d reply from the very beginning. He closes his texting app with a huff and zips his phone into his carry-on. He’ll text Sasha and Mikko once he lands.

* * *

It’s nearly ten hours later, Patrik feeling groggy in his hotel in Helsinki, when he finally looks at his texts again. He stares at Sasha’s last text for a while before replying, _im gonna be an adult about it_. It’s a cold response, and he doesn’t mean to be that way to him, but Sasha’s out galavanting around with his girlfriend and hasn’t bothered to talk to Patrik in a while, so maybe he’s a little bitter.

He opens his text chain with Mikko. _hey, is your apartments extra room still up for grabs?_

He can be an adult about it.

_hell yeah! roomies!_

Patrik smiles at his phone. Mikko’s season just ended, after winning seven games and losing five. He was injured, clearly, and Patrik acutely knows the feeling of your body betraying your ability to help your team. But Mikko is so _positive_, always with such a good energy about him.

_cool :)_

It’s settled, then. Patrik calls his parents and then falls fast asleep in the hotel bed, feeling good about the summer to come.

* * *

They move in together in Turku. Mikko’s apartment isn’t much, but Patrik doesn’t need much. The entryway is narrow, and the whole apartment is just one hallway. The living room and the kitchen are in the front on either side of the entryway, and the two bedrooms and the bathroom stem off the hallway in the back.

Mikko takes Patrik’s bags and tosses them on the bed in the second bedroom. Patrik toes along the shaggy rug. The bed sags under the weight of his bags. Sunlight streams in through the window, barely blocked by the thin linen shades. 

“It’s nice,” Patrik says into the silence.

“Yeah.” Mikko smooths down the comforter, shifting Patrik’s duffel with careful hands. Patrik watches him; he’s still got cuts healing on his skin, bruises on his legs. Patrik’s injuries were quiet, soreness and pain sneaking up on him through the season. Nothing broken, nothing torn, just used too much. “Should be a good summer.”

“The best,” Patrik agrees.

They’ve both got money on the way, hopefully everything settled before training camp. Patrik feels a sort of sinking half-dread thinking of training camp, of the way they left each other, but he can’t let it bother him. He can’t worry about what people are saying and tweeting about him, so he tosses his phone on the bed and follows Mikko back down the hallway to the living room.

* * *

They spend most of their time in the living room. There’s a big recliner in the corner and a loveseat facing the TV, well-worn and too-small, but perfectly cozy for summer nights playing video games. Mikko has every game system known to man hooked up to the TV, and a basket filled with controllers that they have to dig through every time to find the right ones with the right batteries.

It’s mostly Fortnite, and Fifa, and a little CoD for old time’s sake. Mikko’s kind of a scrub and it’s annoying to carry him on team modes, but one-on-one Patrik has his way with him. The nights when it’s just them are the best, going out to dinner after playing badminton for a couple hours and then hanging out on the loveseat.

A few weeks in and Patrik already knows it’s going to be one of the best and worst summers of his life. Mikko wrestles Patrik into a headlock, pushes his hair around, and laughs like it’s nothing, and Patrik thinks about what Sasha said. He’s not sure if Mikko even has the _capacity_ to hurt him, if there’s a cell in Mikko’s body that could ever do harm.

Patrik rolls easily from Mikko’s grip and they tumble to the floor. They sit there late into the night, talking about contract stuff and their hopes for the coming season, when their bodies will be okay again.

* * *

If he ignores it all, then it’s okay, and it’s just like having a normal roommate. But with Mikko, nothing is normal.

Patrik gets back from the grocery store one afternoon and tosses his keys on the counter, fishing the food out of the bag and putting it all into the fridge haphazardly. He turns into the living room, ready to go boneless on the loveseat for a while, sore from the morning’s workout. But when he swings into the room, he’s instead met by the sight of Mikko sitting on the loveseat, fully nude, a hand rolling over the head of his dick.

“Bro!” he says, holding up a hand to shield Mikko’s naked body from view and going red, stumbling backward. “Do it in your bedroom, for fuck’s sake!”

“Hey,” Mikko says casually. “Wanna fuck?” He smiles at Patrik from the loveseat.

Patrik gawks at him a second. “I mean, yeah? Sure?” Mikko is muscular and he’s got that smile, and Patrik has fantasized about him since he was 18 and Mikko was his captain in Helsinki, on a team that changed all of their lives. He had always thought that it’d stay a fantasy, but who is he to say no?

“Cool.” Mikko strokes himself and unabashedly looks Patrik up and down. Then, in a calculated motion, he pulls his legs apart, forming a Patrik-sized space between them. He wets his bottom lip.

Patrik stares a moment, doing his best to not imagine Sasha’s sad doe eyes or the way his lips pinch in disappointment, and walks over as if magnetized. He can’t help the pull, the body’s need to be near another. Maybe there’s just something _different_ between the guys from that team in Helsinki. Maybe there’s something he’ll never be able to change.

He sinks to his knees between Mikko’s legs. He wraps both his hands around the base, working him with tight shallow strokes. Mikko groans and lets his head drops back onto the loveseat. Patrik reaches lower to roll Mikko’s balls in his hand before he bends forward and sucks in the head.

Something, or _everything_, feels absolutely absurd about this. Mikko and Patrik have been friends for years, growing up in the Finnish system together, national teams and summer training and a shared language to chirp in across the red line during warmups. But something feels absolutely _amazing_; Mikko’s dick is thick, spreading his lips, and he reaches over to tangle his fingers in Patrik’s hair. Patrik speeds up, lapping the underside with his tongue, looking up at Mikko’s ever-reddening face. 

He can’t get him all the way down, but he does his best (Mikko is an _animal_, Patrik has always known it). He holds the base and swallows him back until he can’t go further, Mikko’s dick pressing into his throat. His eyelashes flutter. He feels full, like his lips are about to crack at the edges. His own dick is hard and throbbing in his sweats; Mikko’s grip tightens around his hair, pulling just slightly.

His grip makes Patrik tense up all over, his tongue pressing up against the base of his dick, his throat tightening, and it makes Mikko gasp out a moan and pull out, coming over Patrik’s lips, dribbling down his chin mixed with saliva. Patrik licks his lips tentatively, tasting it. It’s bitter, but Mikko is looking at him like he could go again, so he doesn’t spit it out.

Patrik stands on shaking legs and bends forward, bracing himself over Mikko’s seated body against the back of the loveseat. Mikko reaches out and cups his dick through his sweats. “Get after it,” he commands, nodding at him, and then Patrik is grinding down, rocking back and forth on Mikko’s hand. It doesn’t take much before his breath catches, his hips still, and a wet spot soaks the front of his sweats. Mikko rubs at the wetness with his thumb and Patrik shakes with oversensitivity.

Mikko pats Patrik’s hip. “Dope,” he says, sinking back into the couch.

Patrik nods, brain gooey from the orgasm and Mikko’s hand and Mikko’s dick, which was just _in his mouth_. There’s come on his face. “Thanks,” he manages. 

“There’s Gatorade in the fridge,” Mikko says.

“Uh-huh.” Patrik’s brain is still a little stuck on the _Mikko’s dick in his mouth_ thing, but he wobbles into the kitchen and downs half a bottle before he even thinks about it. He walks back to his room with shaking legs, then rolls onto his bed, his sweats sticking to his thighs.

There’s come drying on his chin and in his sweats, but he doesn’t even bother to get up and clean himself off. He rolls onto his side, pulls out his phone, scrolls to his texting chain with Nikolaj, and sends, _so do you wanna hear about something weird that just happened?_

* * *

They grab dinner by the waterfront, eating outside in the glow of the setting sun.

“So, this afternoon,” Mikko says. Patrik swallows a chunk of potato whole, coughing and taking a long drink of his water.

When Patrik says nothing, too busy trying to dislodge the potato in his throat, Mikko presses on, “That was fun.”

Patrik nods while swallowing. “Good, it was good,” he says, trying not to sound too eager. “Friends, fucking, nothing better.” 

“Yeah, you’re right.” Mikko’s got some weird fruity cider drink, which he takes a long sip from. “Friends fucking. I like the sound of that.” It feels like they just made some sort of agreement, because they both nod as they drink from their glasses, but Patrik's not totally sure what they've agreed to. 

He wants to clarify, ask if Mikko wants to _keep_ fucking, but the waiter comes over to refill Patrik’s water and ask if he’s alright. Patrik nods and Mikko smiles from behind the rim of his glass. “It’s gonna be a good summer,” Patrik says, promising it to himself, speaking it into existence.

“The best.” Mikko steals a potato wedge off Patrik’s plate and smiles into the ocean breeze.

* * *

When Mikko walks into his room the next morning, Patrik is still lying half-asleep on his stomach in bed. Patrik hears his footsteps against the ratty rug with the floorboards creaking underneath his weight. Twisting his body, he looks up at him, smiling at him with sleep-lidded eyes. Sunlight streams in and bathes Patrik’s bare upper body.

“Wanna fuck?” Patrik asks, voice thick from sleep. He’s heard someone say something once about missing the shots you don’t take. Patrik looks at Mikko, his thick bare torso and his long legs, and reassures himself that he’s always had a high shooting percentage.

Mikko grins at him in his lopsided way. “‘Course,” he says without hesitation, taking another step forward, pressing his knees against the side of the bed. Patrik stretches his arms out and lets out a tiny contented groan. Mikko’s eyes are dark, watching him. He crawls up on the bed and it sinks under their combined weight.

Before Patrik has a chance to flip over, Mikko is climbing on top of him, straddling his upper thighs. He runs his hands down Patrik’s back, all the way to the dip before the swell of his ass. Mikko palms his ass; Patrik feels himself start to harden, blood rushing to his dick. He vaguely thinks that the lack of blood in his brain might be why he’s not making good decisions, but the thought floats away when Mikko curls his hands around the waistband of Patrik’s sweats and yanks them down over his ass and upper thighs.

“Don’t get too excited back there,” Patrik warns. “You are _not_ putting your dick in me when we have to work out in two hours.”

“Fair,” Mikko replies.

Patrik faces the bed as Mikko massages his ass with one hand. There’s a sound of shifting fabric and then Mikko’s dick, heavy and partway hard already, drops onto his ass. He teases him slowly at first, dragging it around while touching Patrik’s hips and lower back with his free hand, running his fingers over sensitive skin. Patrik wiggles backward lazily, just enough for a little friction, a little more feeling.

Just as it’s starting to get good, Mikko disappears for a second. Patrik turns over his shoulder with a scowl and watches Mikko prance nakedly into the bathroom across the hall. He returns with a bottle of lube and a grin and climbs right back on top of Patrik.

Mikko slicks his dick with lube and presses it between Patrik’s asscheeks. He leans forward and presses Patrik into the bed with a hand on his shoulder, holding his full weight on him. The head of his dick bumps Patrik’s hole as he thrusts forward; he moans into the pillow. The implication, the thought of it happening, has him leaking on the sheets.

Mikko drags his dick along Patrik’s crack. He fucks him like that, pressing his ass around his dick, short thrusts that rub his shaft along Patrik’s hole with every pass. He bends upward again, taking his hand off Patrik’s shoulders so he can grab Patrik’s hips and pull him toward himself, bouncing him on the squeaky old mattress.

Patrik rocks back and forth with him, or at least as much as he can with Mikko straddling his thighs and manhandling him. He grinds his dick into the bed and then on the upstroke presses into Mikko’s thrusts, riding on his dick. It's a strange sensation, not fucking but coming close enough, Mikko creating fiction with Patrik’s asscheeks and teasing his hole as much as he can.

He ruts against the bed and pushes himself back onto Mikko until he comes in that lazy early morning way, letting it wash over him, his body still-half asleep. He wiggles his ass as Mikko grunts on top of him until he bends down and grabs Patrik’s waist. He comes as he’s thrusting, down the crease of Patrik’s ass and on the inside of his thighs.

Mikko slaps Patrik’s ass playfully before climbing off the bed. “Fuckin’ rights, Pate,” he says, and Patrik almost has to stifle a laugh.

Mikko leaves Patrik in his bed with jizz cooling on his ass and thighs. Patrik paws for his phone and pulls up his conversation with Sasha. The most recent text is a picture of him and his girlfriend on a boat somewhere, half-dressed and only looking at each other. Patrik types, _so what would you do if i told you that rane and i have had sex twice in the last 24 hours…?_

No reply comes for a long time, which is uncharacteristic of him. Patrik goes to his workout with Mikko, and they spot each other and laugh and chirp Rasmus. After the workout, it’s burgers for lunch, some random place Mikko likes that they probably shouldn’t be eating at but they do anyway. Right now Patrik doesn’t care about what he should or shouldn’t be doing. He only wants the pleasures in life, the things that feel good and the things that feel even better. Sauce drips down his chin; he wipes it away with his thumb and Mikko watches. He smirks.

After, Mikko drives them home, Patrik sitting in the passenger seat with his feet on the dash and the window down. The summer breeze flutters through the window as they drive back to the apartment, and Patrik’s phone pings.

It’s Sasha. _Are you being careful?_ Patrik looks over to watch Mikko. He’s singing along loudly to the song on the radio. He casually reaches over to put his hand on Patrik’s thigh, grinning.

_like... condom wise? no lol_

He knows that’s not what Sasha means, but he dodges the question all the same.

_No you idiot. Emotionally_

Patrik really hates how much Sasha cares about him sometimes. _its fine_, he replies.

When they get back to the apartment, Mikko grins and strips off his shirt, then yanks Patrik into the bathroom with him when Patrik rakes his eyes over him. They end up jerking each other off before they’re done showering and they have to soap off all over again. Patrik walks into the kitchen in his boxers and chugs a Gatorade as he counts. Once could be an accident, twice could be a mistake, but three times is a pattern.

He’s not sure how he feels. Sore, mostly. But also fond and excited and anxious about this new little unspoken setup with Mikko. He’s liked him so long, since they were kids, but it was distant and fantastical before. Now it’s right in his face (quite literally), and he only wants more. All the sad little pictures that light up in his brain, Sasha’s pinched frown and missed shots against St. Louis and a still unsigned contract, disappear during sex. 

Patrik needs the peace and quiet.

* * *

It feels like everything they do these days ends with them having sex. They go to train, hickeys and scratches conveniently hidden under t-shirts, then go home and jerk off together in the shower. They go to dinner and Mikko teases Patrik the whole time by running his foot up and down his bare calf, and then they don't even make it into the apartment, Patrik sucking Mikko off in the car, bent over the center console and Mikko reaching over to palm at his ass. They play video games on the loveseat naked, and after a while Mikko gets tired of losing and fucks Patrik’s thighs right there, the loveseat too small and their bodies too gangly and long, but the weird soreness in Patrik’s side from the armrest totally worth it.

It’s fun, and that’s all it has to be. Patrik doesn’t even really text Sasha about it anymore, because he’s tired of the long breaks between responses and the curt sentences he receives. Sex is just sex, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. Patrik’s too used to placing too much importance on events and patterns in his life. Eighteen goals in twelve games, thirty-six games with only four. Four goals in Finland and five in St. Louis.

Patrik doesn’t want to think about patterns and streaks much, not after this season. He just wants to think about the swollen head of Mikko’s dick pressing into the back of his throat in the morning and the metal bar of the weight rack pressing into his shoulders in the afternoon.

When Patrik has a bad day, Mikko doesn’t say anything but he turns up the music in the car and sings louder and worse, rolling down the windows to scream English lyrics off-key into the Turku streets because he knows it always makes Patrik laugh. When Mikko has a bad day, Patrik pulls him off the loveseat and away from Fortnite and insists that they go outside, so they walk along the coastline side by side and Patrik distracts Mikko from whatever’s going on. Some days Mikko calls Landeskog, and most days Patrik texts Nikolaj, both of them silently agreeing not to discuss trade and offer sheet rumors.

* * *

“Can I fuck your mouth today?” Mikko says out of the blue. They’re sitting by the track in the grass, the rest of their group only feet away, so Patrik spits out some of his water in surprise when he says it.

“Fuck, Rane, can’t you wait until we’re home to say shit like that?” He ducks his head.

“Sorry. You just look hot right now.” Mikko just shrugs and reaches over to retie Patrik’s shoe. Patrik sticks his foot out without thinking, letting him tie it just as snug as he likes. 

The sex is good, but the friendship is better. They’re the kind of friends that have an instinct for each other. Sometimes it feels like all the guys from 2016 have hearts that are still beating in sync. When Mikko gets up to run his next set, Patrik’s behind him to strap the weights on, knotting it and patting between Mikko’s shoulder blades when he’s done. 

The sun is just starting to set when they head home from the session that evening. Mikko’s skin and hair glow in the car. He sings along to the music and Patrik puts up his feet. Mikko hates it when he messes up the dash but Mikko likes Patrik more than he likes the dash so he doesn’t say anything at all. He just keeps singing along to the American music Patrik doesn’t know, probably something he picked up in Denver.

When they get back to the apartment, Patrik sits on the loveseat, still covered in sweat and dirt, and Mikko pulls his shorts off, walking over and jerking himself to half-hard with a loose fist.

“I wish your hair was still long,” Mikko mutters, pushing his fingers through what’s still there, getting a firm grip on him.

“It’s long enough,” Patrik retorts, but he also can’t help but imagine doing this in March or April when his hair falls to his jaw, Mikko getting a fist full of it and pulling him in any direction he wants.

“We’ll see.” Mikko yanks Patrik’s hair, pulling him off the loveseat and onto his knees. Patrik goes easy. He’s easy for Mikko, easy to groan into the tension on his scalp and easy to lean in and push Mikko’s shirt up. He licks and nips at the hard and sweaty skin there, tasting the salt and the faint soap that’s in their shared shower. He lathes his tongue over the crevice along his hip bone, his bellybutton, the pale blonde hair that trails below it.

He ghosts his lips down the length of Mikko’s shaft, breathing on it. Mikko’s grip tightens in his hair. The tug is exhilarating; Patrik feels like OT, like a breakaway. His hands are on Mikko’s thighs and he rubs them around lightly, brushing the wiry blonde hair high on Mikko’s legs. He tilts his chin up, opens his mouth, and waits. His tongue is wet and Mikko’s dick throbs, so close that Patrik can nearly taste it.

“Tap my leg if it’s too much,” Mikko says before lining up.

“I’m not a quitter.” Patrik wants _more_; he wants it all. He can be cocky if he wants to be.

He relaxes his muscles and lets Mikko start to fuck into him, first shallowly, dragging his head along the length of Patrik’s tongue, the salty and bitter flavor filling his mouth. He increases the pace, working himself in faster, going just slightly deeper with every thrust. Patrik holds his mouth perfectly still, his jaw aching, his lips getting swollen from the friction.

Mikko presses in and holds himself there for a moment, and Patrik swallows around him while tears prick the corners of his eyes. He moves his tongue as much as he can, and Mikko groans as his hips jerk, pulling out and thrusting back in again. He restarts the rhythm, fucking into the back of Patrik’s throat, his fingers twisted so tightly in Patrik’s hair that he’s sure his scalp will be sore later.

“Can I, on your face?” Mikko asks suddenly, pulling out so just the head is between Patrik's lips, resting heavy and leaking precome on his tongue.

Patrik just nods, not caring where he gets it. Mikko moans and thrusts in one last time half-heartedly before he pulls out and paints Patrik's face with thick stripes of his sticky come. He gets it in his eyelashes, over the bridge of his nose, on his lips, and a little on his neck, where it slides down to settle in the hollow between his collarbones.

Mikko’s eyes are hungry as his dick softens, and he presses it against Patrik's face, rubbing the come around, pushing the head through it and back into Patrik’s mouth until he licks it clean. At the end of it, Patrik’s a mess, the corners of his eyes crusty with dried tears, come smeared all over his face.

“You're fucking gross,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I dunno. It's pretty sexy when you look like a little cumslut.” Mikko’s words are filthy enough to make Patrik flush. It sounds weird coming from his friend’s mouth, the goofy voice he’s used to hearing talk about video games and golf.

“Jesus.” Patrik pushes up off his knees. He wipes the come-covered back of his hand across Mikko’s neck, sticking his tongue out at him. “How about you go out and bring back dinner for your precious little cumslut, then?”

Mikko smiles, rubbing the come on his neck. “Alright.”

Dinner is burritos and even more Gatorade, because every time Patrik thinks they’ve drunk the last one, two more seem to appear from nowhere.

* * *

“Let’s go somewhere fancy for dinner tonight,” Mikko says, pouncing on Patrik on the loveseat. Patrik yelps and fumbles with his controller, and his avatar immediately gets killed on screen. Patrik tries and fails to move the massive amount of Mikko on top of him, but Mikko has always seemed to be especially affected by the laws of inertia. A Mikko in motion cannot be stopped, and a Mikko at rest is immovable.

“Can’t. Breathe,” Patrik wheezes, because Mikko is two hundred pounds of pure muscle and those two hundred pounds are making themselves comfortable on top of him. Mikko grins and tosses Patrik’s controller on the floor. It makes a couple plasticy bouncing _clack_s and comes to a stop.

“We never do anything fancy!” Mikko complains, shifting a little so Patrik can breathe, nestling into the space between Patrik’s legs, putting his hands on Patrik’s knees.

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s a pain,” he replies. They’re about halfway through the summer and mostly it’s been simple proteins from the grocery store or takeout, because the days are reserved for training and it’s too annoying to have to worry about interesting meals too.

“Y’know, we make a lot of money. Soon we’ll be making even more! We should use it sometime.” Mikko pouts.

“I buy stuff!” Patrik protests. He kicks at Mikko’s leg half-heartedly.

“You buy ugly shoes.” Mikko raises his eyebrows. “Now go shower.”

Patrik does as he’s told, because Mikko’s laws of inertia apply to his decision-making, too. He puts on a button-down and slacks and then adds a bowtie at Mikko’s insistence. Walking to Mikko’s car, their hair slicked back and game-day shoes on, it could be a date.

_Could_ be.

They talk about normal things over the drive and dinner, hockey things. The season just ended for good and it was followed by the usual buzz of the additional hoopla, the awards and the draft right on its heels. Patrik’s paying attention, but only a little, because sometimes it feels like walking backwards into his own life.

“You’re friends with that Kakko kid, yeah?” Patrik asks over his steak, chewing as he talks. “I heard he’s coming in tomorrow.”

Mikko nods. “Yeah, he’s a good Turku kid. Cute kid.”

Patrik pauses chewing a moment at the descriptor _cute_, but says nothing. He’s never met the guy, but he feels his own life in a strange parallel with his. He watched him win World Championship gold and felt his pride along with a sting, and woke up a week ago to see a _2_next to his name and it was like his own past was coming back to prove something to him. Not even a World Championship gold, the medal that eluded and haunted Patrik, can turn a number 2 into a number 1.

“Sucks that Colorado didn’t win the lottery,” he says, because he wants to stop thinking about himself for a second, stop thinking about the number 2 that’s followed him for years. Patrik wants to stop thinking about stats and numbers typed beside his name.

“Don’t remind me,” Mikko says. 

It’s summer and the days seem endless this far north, so the sun is barely setting as they drive back from the restaurant. Patrik feels full and happy; he rolls the window down and turns his nose out the window, just enough that the wind presses against his face. Mikko’s still singing, singing like he always is, and it makes Patrik giggle a little.

Mikko turns to look at Patrik as he’s laughing and nearly runs a red light because of it. He slams on the breaks and shouts, “Holy shit!” and it all just makes Patrik laugh harder. Mikko tries to look annoyed but the corners of his mouth twitch upward, and then they’re both laughing so hard Patrik can barely hear the music, just Mikko’s deep laugh in one ear and birds whistling in the summer wind in the other. 

When they get back to the apartment, they’re barely through the door before Mikko’s turning around, kicking the door shut, cornering Patrik in the entryway, and kissing him. Mikko wraps his arms around him, holding him close, and Patrik fumbles for purchase. It’s good, and warm, and they’re both still laughing a little at first but not for long. Mikko presses Patrik against the door and the kiss deepens; Patrik moans into it, pushing his hand up under Mikko’s shirt and touching his stomach, the feeling of the firm muscles right underneath his skin.

Mikko has one hand around the back of Patrik’s neck and he brushes his fingers along the chain of Patrik’s necklace. He pulls away to kiss Patrik’s neck and the shell of his ear.

“Right now I wanna finger you until the only word you know is _Mikko_,” Mikko breathes into Patrik’s ear, voice gravelly, accentuating the syllables of his own name in staccato rhythm.

“Sure,” Patrik says. He lets himself be led into Mikko’s room by the wrist. They kiss and lose their clothes on the way. They’re fully naked by the time they climb onto Mikko’s bed, a trail of clothes left behind them. Patrik’s on his back and Mikko’s on top of him, and they kiss and touch each other, starting slow but the pace increasing as they go.

Once Patrik is reduced to moaning under Mikko’s hands and squirming on the bed, Mikko reaches lower, past Patrik’s balls to rub at his hole with the pads of his fingers. He seems to conjure lube out of nowhere, and then everything is wetter and slicker. Mikko slips one finger inside, just to the first knuckle.

He goes slow, _unbelievably _slow, so slow that Patrik almost curses him out while he’s got a finger in his ass. He gets the first finger all the way in, wiggling it gently, squirting more lube down and pressing at his rim with his second finger.

When he’s two fingers in, he inches them slowly along Patrik’s walls until he finds his prostate and then he crooks them, bending at the knuckles and rubbing along the sensitive spots.

“Mikko—” His legs shake, but Mikko pulls back, withdrawing to the rim and rubbing him gently there. Then, as fast as he pulled out, he fucks his fingers back inside, harder and faster this time, spreading Patrik out and pressing deep inside him.

“A-another,” Patrik says, and Mikko obliges, stretching a third finger past his rim. He slows down again, pushing them in purposefully, finding his prostate again and rubbing it.

“Fuck, fuck,” Patrik groans. “Mikko, fuck.” His whole body is tense, taut along every edge with pleasure.

“C’mon, Pate,” Mikko says, curling his fingers at just the right angle. “Wanna see you come without even touching yourself, just from my fingers, c’mon. Say my name, Pate.”

“Mikko,” Patrik gasps out with a moan, Mikko’s fingers and his gravelly voice shooting through him like electricity. Mikko thrusts into him once, twice more, and then Patrik’s orgasm rips through him. His legs shake as he comes over his stomach, Mikko pulling his fingers out as he comes down.

Patrik looks at Mikko, who’s staring at him greedily with a hand curled around his dick.

“You should probably fuck me,” he says, eyebrows raised.

Mikko pauses. “You sure? It might not feel good.”

“Bro. I’m not a fucking quitter.” Patrik spreads his legs. In his head, he counts the number of days of summer they have left. His chances are dwindling; they haven’t fucked like this yet, and Patrik wants it. At least once. Before he has to go back to getting fucked by an NHL schedule and NHL injuries and NHL expectations, he needs to get fucked by Mikko. He can’t have a zero in that column, too. “Shut up and put your dick in me.”

“I mean, hell yeah.” Mikko shrugs and climbs on top of Patrik. He slicks himself with lube and fingers Patrik just a little more, adding some more lube to replace what’s leaked out onto the sheets. He starts by pressing just the head in, and Patrik shudders, oversensitive but feeling like he could come again. Mikko’s a lot bigger than any dick he’s ever been fucked by (_an animal_, he thinks), and the stretch burns in the best way as he bottoms out.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” Mikko says. Patrik grabs Mikko’s ass and pushes back against him. Mikko curses under his breath and pulls out before slamming in again, all the way out and all the way back in. Patrik moans and blood rushes back to his dick. He can feel Mikko all the way in his stomach; it’s animalistic and the slapping of their skin is obscene and Patrik feels like he’s won some prize, maybe. If dick could be a prize, Mikko’s dick would be it.

Mikko fucks him like that, with hard thrusts, pulling all the way out to tease Patrik with just the head before thrusting in again, leaking precome inside him and pressing against his prostate on every thrust. He’s fast and heavy, and the sound of their skin hitting together is obscene. 

Mikko chases his orgasm single-mindedly; he sucks a hickey into Patrik’s neck as he thrusts in again and again. Patrik’s fully hard now, gasping out moans with every thrust, certain he’ll come again.

Mikko rolls his hips and gets a hand on the inside of Patrik’s thigh, holding him open and down on the bed. He presses all the way inside once, twice, and groans before pulling all the way back out, jacking himself furiously.

He comes on Patrik’s stomach and then hauls him into the shower, wrapping his arms low around Patrik’s waist in the spray. They stand under the water, not speaking and not washing themselves off either. It feels oddly intimate, listening to the water beat against the flimsy shower curtain, watching it swirl down the drain. Patrik wonders if there’s some drain he’s circling, if after that season he’s already heading to nothingness.

Mikko’s not heading for nothingness. He’s a rocket.

* * *

When Patrik meets Kaapo for the first time, he’s got a dark mark in the crook of his neck from the night before and his legs are sore. Kaapo looks at his feet, then in his eyes, and finally his gaze drifts to the bruise.

“Hey. I’m Kaapo,” he says, reaching out a hand. Patrik nods and shakes it. Mikko ambles in behind him, shouting a greeting at Kaapo and stopping beside Patrik. His hand rests on the small of Patrik’s back for a brief moment, and Patrik knows that Kaapo doesn’t miss it.

Mikko goes in for a handshake-hug with Kaapo. As they pull away, Kaapo’s cheeks are pink. Mikko doesn’t seem to notice, and he starts chattering Patrik’s ear off about something Rasmus did. Patrik feels something strange rise in his throat: jealousy, maybe, but it’s not like Patrik can stake any claim to Mikko.

They’re just friends. Mikko’s his friend. His friend who had his dick up Patrik’s ass last night, but friends nonetheless.

Kaapo mixes up his words and laughs too loud when Mikko’s around. Mikko is either oblivious or cruel, because he’s always got one hand around the base of Kaapo’s neck and the other messing with Kaapo’s hair. Kaapo nearly drops his weights, and later that night during badminton he flings his racket all the way across the gym when Mikko yells, “Nice one!”

Patrik hates him not for any fault of his own but because he reminds him of himself, and Patrik’s collected a lot of reasons to hate himself lately.

* * *

It’s mid-July, right before Patrik leaves for Tampere for his and Sasha’s charity golf tournament, even though he hasn’t texted Sasha in 26 days (he’s been keeping careful count, counting like he always does), when he finds himself alone with Kaapo for the first time. It’s after their evening training session, and Mikko’s gone with some trainer to do something with his knee, and everyone else has gone home. Patrik’s tying his shoes in the gym locker room when Kaapo walks around the corner, fresh out of the shower with his bangs falling in his eyes.

“Oh. Hey.” He nods, putting his head down and walking straight to his stall.

“Hi,” Patrik replies. Kaapo just nods and busies himself with his things, pulling socks on and fiddling with his bag.

Patrik can tell Kaapo wants to say something and he’s psyching himself up to do it, so he waits for it. He’s curious about the kid, number 2 after an American just like him. Unable to do enough to be enough, just like him. He’s not sure how to tell Kaapo that it only gets harder from here.

“I’m sorry,” Kaapo says eventually, half-mumbling and still looking down at the floor.

“What?” Patrik asks, not expecting that out of all things. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“I’m sorry for being weird about it. You and Mikko. I’m just… a little jealous, I guess.” Kaapo shrugs.

Patrik understands jealousy. Something he and Kaapo share is that their very best was still only second best. “Don’t be,” he says. “Rane and I are just friends.”

Kaapo barks out a laugh. “Alright,” he says. “You don’t have to lie to me just ‘cause I’m a kid. Don’t worry, I know that Mikko doesn’t feel the same way.”

Patrik narrows his eyes. “I never lie.”

“Everyone can see the way you come in with your hands all over each other,” Kaapo says matter-of-factly.

“That doesn’t mean we’re _dating_—”

“And you should hear how he talks about you,” Kaapo continues, staring at the floor and not letting Patrik’s interruption silence him.

Patrik blinks at that. He isn’t sure how Mikko talks about him when he’s not there. His whole life he’s had to block out the things people say about him because he’d lose his mind if he didn’t. Maybe he never considered that the things people say could be good. It feels like it’s been a long time since things haven’t been bad.

He frowns. “I think we’re the same,” he tells Kaapo. He stands and stretches. “Just make sure you score a buncha goals in New York this year, alright?”

Kaapo looks up at him, finally making eye contact. He nods silently.

“Do you need a ride home? Where are you staying?”

* * *

“You were only half right, by the way,” Patrik tells Sasha when he gets pulled into a hug the moment he steps out of his car in Tampere.

Sasha looks at him, sad doe-eyes crinkled at the corners with concern. “Which part?”

“Well, I went and fell for him, but he never hurt me. Mikko can’t hurt anyone.”

Sasha frowns. “It’s not that he’ll _try_ to hurt you, but you always let yourself get hurt.”

Patrik scoffs. Here Sasha goes again with his concern. “I’ve been hurt enough. It doesn’t matter.”

Tampere is sunny and beautiful and Sasha is sad-eyed and concerned; everything is how it should be. They play golf for an entire weekend and Patrik is lulled back into the comforting boxes of counting, tees and holes and what par it is.

Sasha is a better golfer than Patrik but not by much. They’re taking it easy, too, but Patrik can’t help but watch his score, counting as it ramps up over the holes. “What are you doing?” Sasha asks him at one point, snatching the scorecard from him.

“Just keeping track,” Patrik replies, sheepish.

“It’s for charity, man. You don’t always have to keep score.”

Patrik’s been keeping score his whole life, though. Counting is all he really knows. He’s spent a lifetime chasing numbers and high scores that only get more unattainable the closer he gets to them. The number he’s looking for has never seemed further away, never more obfuscated. 

He’s staying with his parents, in his childhood bedroom, but he and Sasha go out for dinner. Nothing fancy, just wings, but it somehow makes everything feel normal again. It doesn’t matter what else is happening when he and Sasha can at least eat a couple dozen chicken wings.

They eat in blissful silence, the other patrons not even approaching them for autographs or pictures, until Sasha pauses to pick something out of his teeth and he stares at Patrik for a long moment. “What,” Patrik says flatly.

“Mikko was on the 2016 World Juniors team, right?” he asks.

“Yeah?”

Sasha nods like that explains everything. Patrik raises his eyebrows.

“It just makes a lot of sense.” Sasha shrugs. Reluctantly, Patrik agrees. There’s a love he has for those guys that he doesn’t have for anyone else, not even Sasha. “I can see why you two would start dating.”

Patrik shoots hot sauce out of his nose, which burns like hell. “_What?_” he says. “Whoa, hold on, we’re not _dating_.”

“You’re not?” Sasha nibbles at a nearly-bare chicken wing. “From what I hear—which is not much lately, by the way—it sounds like you’re dating.”

“We are _not_. We’re just… fucking.” It sounds so crass when Patrik says it like that, but it’s the truth. It was their unspoken spoken agreement: friends, fucking.

“And living together? And going out to dinner? And you’re in love with him? Kinda sounds like you’re dating.”

“Well—” Patrik tries to protest.

“I’m worried about you, Pate,” Sasha interrupts. Patrik’s eyebrows shoot up. Sasha never interrupts him, never speaks over him or replies harshly. He’s always so kind, so careful with Patrik. “You shouldn’t be avoiding what’s really bothering—”

“—I am _not_—”

“You are and you know it!” Sasha barks out a bitter laugh. “Do you wanna talk about the goals? The end of the season? Your contract?”

“No, I don’t—”

“Exactly. And neither does Mikko.” Sasha crosses his arms. Patrik feels his face heat, angry and embarrassed at Sasha’s words because he’s right, Patrik knows he’s right. Sasha is always right. Patrik wants to scream, or cry, or throw a plate at the wall. 

Sasha’s arm and the tight line of his mouth loosen. His eyebrows go soft with concern. “Sorry, Pate. It’s okay to not want to talk about things yet. I guess that makes the two of you perfect for each other.”

Patrik rolls his eyes to play it off and reaches out to grab another chicken wing. It’s infuriating, and wonderful, and terrible, and exactly what he needs, for Sasha to care about him the way he does.

Tampere is still sunny and beautiful and they play a lot of golf, not needing to talk at all as they ride along the course. Sasha keeps the scorecard in his pocket and Patrik does his best to not count up in his head. They tan and only burn a little. The golf clubs are cool and sturdy in Patrik’s gloved hands. There’s a sureness there, a guarantee of the metal.

Patrik plays a great fucking game of golf, one of the best he’s ever played, but by the end he’s not sure whether he counted right.

* * *

Training camp starts and their workout group dwindles. Patrik and Mikko stay in Finland, in their tiny apartment on the loveseat, no contracts and no signatures and no NHL. “We could go to Switzerland,” Patrik says on an afternoon, Mikko sitting between his legs.

“Bern?” Mikko replies, eyebrows raised. They know a coach there; Patrik nods.

“Sure. I’ll go to Switzerland with you.”

There’s still no contracts to be signed so they go to Switzerland to train, holed up in a hotel room as small as Mikko’s room in the Turku apartment, one bed shoved up against one wall and a desk against the other. It’s unimpressing, grey carpet and beige walls, but Patrik’s expecting and hoping to not spend much time in Switzerland anyway.

They train but they can’t play in the games, so they spend the mornings at the rink and the rest of their days exploring Bern and fooling around in the hotel room. Patrik spends a lot of time thinking about what Sasha said, how he and Mikko are basically dating, how Patrik still won’t talk about the goals and the contract.

Mikko comes out of the shower and sheds his towel, standing buck naked with his ass in Patrik’s direction as he towel-dries his hair. Patrik considers Mikko’s ass appreciatively for a moment before saying, “Do you ever feel like you’ll never do enough?”

Mikko turns around. “Like, in the league? Or in life?” Patrik shrugs noncommittally in response. “I always wanna do _more_,” Mikko says. “This spring, I don’t think I did enough. We really could’ve done it. I really think we could’ve won the whole thing.”

“But you didn’t. I could’ve scored seventy goals this season—”

“But you didn’t,” Mikko finishes for him.

“I scored eighteen in twelve games and then had four in thirty-six.”

“We lost game seven 2-3, Pate. I think we both came up short.”

“Fuck.” Patrik sits up in bed and tugs his fingers through his knotted hair. Maybe if he pulls hard enough, his entire scalp will peel away and all the bad things inside him will finally leak out.

“You’re such a downer sometimes, y’know?” Mikko says, crossing his arms. He’s still entirely naked and damp from the shower, his dick swinging between his legs while he moves. Patrik watches it instead of whatever disapproving look Mikko’s trying to give him.

“I know. Can I suck you off?” Patrik rolls onto his back, letting his head loll back over the edge of the bed. He pulls up his shirt, exposing his belly button and his hips, the stripe where his boxers have ridden up exposing the band.

“Sure.” Mikko reaches down to tug at his dick, jerking himself as he approaches the bed. Patrik touches himself, brushing his fingers down his stomach and reaching down to press the heel of his hand over his dick in his sweats. Mikko reaches the edge of the bed when Patrik’s head is tilted backward, neck exposed. His dick is half-hard and he presses it on Patrik’s face, across his chin and along the crease of his mouth. 

Patrik mouths at it lazily, flicking out his tongue to tease the tip, taste Mikko’s slit. Mikko’s still jacking at himself, cursing lowly under his breath, but he takes his opportunity to thrust inside, pressing against the inside of Patrik’s cheek.

Patrik’s mouth waters and the angle’s awkward; he’s never given an upside down blowjob before. Spit collects at the corners of his mouth and dribbles out down his cheeks. It’s sloppy gross but Patrik doesn’t care and Mikko doesn’t seem to either. Patrik sucks him off, sealing his lips around the shaft, and Mikko curses again before reaching down and holding the back of Patrik’s neck with both hands. He brushes his thumbs along Patrik’s cheeks, smearing the saliva along his skin, and with his hands on him he has better leverage to fuck inside his mouth.

Patrik slackens his jaw and lets Mikko set the pace, feeling the head of his dick rub along his tongue into the back of his throat. He laps at it the best he can, pressing his tongue up against it to chase the taste of it while he palms at himself through his sweats, his hips jerking up toward the contact.

“Fuck, Pate, fuck,” Mikko grunts, letting a final string of curses follow along with one more long thrust before he pulls out and comes onto Patrik’s face and neck. He drops down onto the bed alongside Patrik’s body and shoves Patrik’s hands out of the way before roughly pushing his sweats down his thigh and letting his dick spring free.

Patrik gasps at the cold air and the sound warps into a twisted moan when Mikko leans over and wraps his mouth around the head. He jerks in surprise, fucking up into Mikko’s mouth before coming almost straightaway. He only needs the feeling of Mikko’s tongue on the underside before his entire core tightens and he comes, Mikko sucking him through it.

“Holy fuck, Mikko,” he says. Mikko looks at him and grins before turning around to lie down next to him.

Patrik looks over at Mikko, spit and come on his face and stars in his eyes, and thinks about saying _I love you_. He doesn’t do it, but he thinks about it. Patrik’s never really been known for doing things the way people say he should.

* * *

It’s the afternoon in Switzerland when the call comes in. Patrik rushes out into the hallway and when he comes back in his legs are shaking. “They finished the deal,” he tells Mikko. “Holy shit. They finished. It’s done.”

Mikko hollers and swings Patrik up into a hug, spinning him around and pulling him into bed. He kisses him, long and slow and in a way that doesn’t suggest no-strings-attached fucking is about to occur. Patrik kisses him back, phone discarded on the side table, reaching up to thread his fingers into Mikko’s hair.

Mikko rolls off him to lie by his side. After a long silent moment, he says, “So you’re leaving me, then?”

“They’ll get yours done. Any day now.”

“Pate, I don’t want you to go back to America without me. I want—”

Mikko’s interrupted by a buzzing in his pocket. They both stare at it, wondering if it could _possibly_ be what they think it is. They’re both shock-still for a moment, but then Patrik’s mind stutters back to life and he yells, “Rane! Pick it up!”

“Right! Right right right!” Mikko fumbles with his phone, rolling off the bed and falling onto the floor before recovering and dashing out into the hallway to take the call.

When he comes back, it’s with a dumbstruck look on his face. “It’s not done,” he says, tempering Patrik’s expectations, “but it’s coming. It’s close. They want me to come back.”

And _that_, of all the things to ever happen to Patrik, feels the most sublime.

“Holy shit. Holy shit.” Patrik doesn’t know what else to say, what else he _can_ say.

Mikko tackles him back again, jumping on top of him again, kissing him hard enough that Patrik can feel the press of his teeth, over and over again. “We’re going home. _Finally_. Fuck. Summer’s over, Pate. Let’s go home.”

Patrik nods and laughs, right into Mikko’s mouth. There’s a moment when neither of them say anything, just lying and holding each other, thinking about going home, home as in Finland and home as in North America, new contracts and old friends waiting for them. Patrik feels it all pressing on his chest, or maybe that’s just Mikko. “So you don’t want me to leave without you, then?” he asks, suddenly feeling the weight of what Mikko had said before his phone rang.

“No.” Mikko shakes his head, hair bouncing. “I don’t want you to go anywhere without me. I wanna go home with you, together, Pate.”

“Uh-huh,” Patrik says, breathless. A smile spreads across his face. “Rane, are we dating?”

Mikko opens his mouth, and then closes it. He’s still lying on top of Patrik, the two of them nose to nose. “We might be,” he says. “Do you want to date me?”

Patrik rolls his eyes. “I think I’ve wanted to date you a little bit since 2016,” he says.

“Ah,” Mikko says. “2016. Yeah. I think, sometimes… I think we’re all a little bit…” He pinches his lips like he’s not quite sure how to explain it, the way they are.

Patrik reaches up to touch Mikko’s face. He traces a line down his forehead, to the dimple in his cheek and the line of his chin, all the way down to Mikko’s neck, where Patrik can still remember the gold medal hanging. “I know,” he says. There’s no words, no numbers to quantify the feeling or the enormity of the memory. 

Mikko smiles into the next kiss, and Patrik can feel it. They share the feeling, the knowing, and the unknowing. They’re going home. That’s true. Whatever happens next, Patrik isn’t sure.

* * *

Mikko turns the key in at the front desk before they head to the airport. They’re off to two different cities in two different countries, with two brand new contracts. Mikko’s made himself comfortable for years to come and Patrik’s made a bet on himself.

Everything will be different now. Patrik counts up to the dollar amount he signed for in his head, the number of years he’s made his bet for, and the number of goals he expects from himself. He thinks about patterns and numbers, about thirty-six games with only four goals.

He never wants to feel like that again.

They’re too early for their flights so they walk to the very end of the airport and sit with their knees pressed together in a forgotten corner. “What are you thinking about?” Mikko asks.

“Goals,” Patrik says honestly. “Four goals.”

Mikko frowns at him. He knows exactly what Patrik’s talking about. “Stop. No more feeling sorry for yourself. How about you try thinking about four games against Colorado this season instead?”

Slowly, a smile creeps across Patrik’s face. Mikko’s cheeks are indented with dimples and he’s pushing his knee forward to jiggle Patrik’s leg. “Alright,” he agrees. “That does sound better.”

“And now with your fat new contract, you can finally buy me a nice dinner when I’m in Winnipeg.”

“I expect the same in return.”

“It’s gonna be a great season,” Mikko says, stretching his arms out toward the ceiling, his fingers splayed out.

“The best,” Patrik murmurs in reply.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> i continue to feel too-soft feelings about the finnish wjc team from helsinki even though it's been four and a half years sorry
> 
> much love <3


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